Release
by Ciderbreak
Summary: Spoilers for the last scene of "I was made to love you"


SUBJECT: Fic. "Release"

AUTHOR: Ciderbreak (Lucy)

RATING: PG

PAIRING: B/A implied

RATING: I'm not kidding, it's really PG.

SPOILERS: The very last scene of "I was made to love you"

DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon and the WB own all BTVS characters. No infringement implied.

Everything she says registers in her brain like it's coming from someone else's mouth. She hears every word and none of them surprise her because each one is measured out. Nothing spills over. The world organizes death into certificates and steep coffin prices and specific flowers, ostensibly to make it easier for the family to make decisions quickly and get to the grieving.

Buffy isn't there yet.

Everyone takes care of things and she knows that's only going to last a little while. Ben handles the hospital and her friends run interference. She's numb to Willow's tears, Dawn's screaming, Giles' abject sorrow and Xander's uncharacteristic silence. Her spine tingles because she remembers sliding down the wall in shock when Giles told her about Jenny Calendar. That image plays over and over in her mind; the horror of Angelus, the feel of the steady wall behind her, how her legs fell asleep because she stayed down there too long. It's been years since that moment and she cups it in her hands and looks at it, studies it, recognizes it through a glass darkly.

Not the same.

Shock makes her cold but she can't put on the sweater Anya offers. Mom just did laundry. Tears threaten to spill at the smell of Bounce dryer sheets. Funny how she can call 911, her friends, her father, the school, deal with the police and the funeral home, the gallery employees, pick out an outfit Joyce can rot in and not break down, but one whiff of cotton threatens to undo her. Anya notices it and stays quiet, places the sweater over the back of a chair. Now Buffy knows she's in shock—Anya has nothing to say. 

Slayer senses don't get to take a break. Buffy counts one hour and thirty three minutes til the bloated sun falls prey to the smoggy horizon. Giles doesn't say the word patrol. Instead he says words like "sleep" and "rest" and verbs like "comfort" and "remain." They all try to understand. None of them mouth platitudes. They don't try and placate her. They hug her and weep the tears she holds inside. Since she can't feel grief, she feels guilt—they love her and she won't share her pain. It's not like she can't express it. Ben sedates Dawn and asks Willow if she wants something to help her sleep. He writes a prescription for Buffy but she doesn't want it. A good number of the visitors offer her anti-anxiety medicine and it makes her wonder what people have to be so worried about. No Glory-gods biting at their neck. No incarcerated slayers hating them from afar. No ex-boyfriends ignoring them. No sacred calling with a death knoll and an expiration date. 

She delegates responsibility. Hank gets a hotel room. Giles takes the couch. Anya and Tara field phone calls. Willow camps out on Dawn's floor. Xander makes a fresh pot of coffee and guards the front door all night. Her legs force her upstairs. She brings the Ativan and a glass of water because it eases the lines around Giles' mouth. 

She waits for the moonrise, but there isn't one tonight. She slips out the window, jumps silently to the ground. Alone at last. The silence and the gloom of night is more familiar than the attention of two dozen loved ones.

Countless cemeteries in Sunnydale and Buffy the Vampire Slayer visits each one. Restfield is the nicest. Maybe Joyce would like the empty spot in the corner, the one where Angel first went down on her daughter in the shade of that oak tree. Maybe she'd prefer a larger lot, something humble in the shadow of a stately mausoleum. Spike could take the wilted roses away at night, if he lived close by. The thought of Spike makes Buffy picks her head up and hunt for vampires instead of vacant plots. They're all staying away tonight. Is there a clause? A cease-fire? Buffy doesn't care. She's too numb. She doesn't question why the night is empty of things to go bump.

She's so tired she could drop. A flicker of pride keeps her guard up. It's not a fierce pride. It's bitter. Unsweetened chocolate. This slayer won't die on a fluke. She keeps the same slow pace she's had all night. The oak tree has a vampire behind it and Buffy wants to stake it and keep moving. No fight, no fuss, no feelings.

"No games tonight," she says without inflection. The swish of the vampire's coat is louder than her voice as he steps into view. Buffy drops the stake and reels backwards. In front of her is the only compassion she can't harden her heart to. His hand is steady as he reaches it out, carefully walks toward her. His eyes mirror her grief, his sorrow an extension of hers. 

"Buffy."

The slayer whimpers and her legs give way. His arms support her before she can fall and he draws her up into his arms, cradles her against his chest. It's loud now. Someone is screaming. Should she go help them? Are they being attacked? She flails against the arms that hold her. She wants down. Wants out. Wants the buoyant silence that comes with shock instead of this blaring pain. The arms clasp her tighter, rock her gently, smooth salty-wet strands of hair off her face. Somewhere in the tenderness Buffy realizes the shock barrier is broken and she wonders why she's still cold. The tears keep falling so she stops fighting. Let the killers come. An army couldn't rip her from this safe haven. Seems like hours before the quiet reigns again. Buffy can't move. Her eyes stay shut. Her nose runs and her thin body quakes with dread for the bleak future. 

"I'm afraid," she whispers, ashamed. 

"I love you," comes the response. It lessens the fear. Shares it. Turns it from a wailing, nebulous entity to a normal, measurable reaction. Buffy burrows her head against his chest, quickly finding the spot where her head fits, that soft place between his shoulder and his neck. She doesn't say anything else. Doesn't ask questions. Doesn't demand, doesn't cajole, doesn't plead. The respite is probably not going to last into the pinkening dawn and she knows it won't be enough to get her through the rest of her life, but she knows how to be grateful for peace.

However long it lasts.


End file.
